Claws and Effect (12 page)

Mrs. H., while singing, pointed to Larry Johnson, who came and stood beside her. The choir silenced as he sang a verse in his clear, lovely tenor and then everyone boomed in on the chorus again.

After the choir finished, groups sporadically sang whatever came into their heads, including a medley of Billy Ray Cyrus songs, Cole Porter, and various nursery rhymes, while Ned Tucker, Susan's husband, accompanied them on the piano.

Many of the guests, liberally fueling themselves from the bar, upped the volume.

Tucker, ears sensitive, walked into Harry's bedroom and wiggled under the bed.

Pewter finally moved off the sofa arm but not to the bedroom, which would have been the sensible solution. No, she returned to the table to squeeze in one more sliver of honey-cured ham.

“You're going to barf all over the place.”
Mrs. Murphy opened one eye.

“No, I'm not. I'll walk it off.”

“Ha.”

Coop grabbed another ham biscuit as people crowded around the long table. Larry Johnson, uplifted from the hunt and three desert-dry martinis, slapped the deputy on the back.

“You need to hunt with us.”

“Harry gets after me. I will. Of course, I'd better learn to jump first.”

“Why? Sam Mahanes never bothered.” He couldn't help himself and his laughter sputtered out like machine-gun fire.

It didn't help that Sam, talking to Bruce, heard this aspersion cast his way. He ignored it.

“Harry would let you take lessons on Gin Fizz. He's a wonderful old guy.” Susan volunteered her best friend's horse, then bellowed over the din. “Harry, I'm lending Gin Fizz to Coop.”

“What a princess you are, Susan,” Harry yelled back.

“See, that's all there is to it.” Larry beamed. “And by the way, I'll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Before Coop could whisper some prudence in his ear—after all, why would he need to see her—he tacked in the direction of Little Mim, who smiled when she saw him. People generally smiled in Larry's company.

Mrs. Murphy had both eyes open now, fixed on Coop, whose jaw dropped slightly ajar.

Miranda walked up next to the tall blonde. “I don't know when I've seen Larry Johnson this happy. There must be something to this hunting.”

“Depends on what you're hunting.”
Mrs. Murphy looked back out the window at the horses tied to the vans and trailers. Each horse wore a cooler, often in its stable colors. They were a very pretty sight.

24

Miranda stayed behind to help Harry clean up, as did Susan Tucker. The last guest tottered along at six in the evening, ushered out by soft twilight.

“I think that was the most successful breakfast we've had all year. Thanks to you.” Harry scrubbed down the kitchen counters.

“Right,” Susan concurred.

“Thank you.” Miranda smiled. She enjoyed making people happy. “When your parents were alive this house was full of people. I remember one apple blossom party, oh my, the Korean War had just ended and the apple trees bloomed like we'd never seen them. Your father decided we had to celebrate the end of the war and the blossoms, the whole valley was filled with apple fragrance. So he begged, borrowed, and stole just about every table in Crozet, put them out front under the trees. Your mother made centerpieces using apple blossoms and iris, now that was beautiful. Uncle Olin, my uncle, he died before you were born, brought down his band from up Winchester way. Your dad built, built from scratch, a dance floor that he put together in sections. I think all of Crozet came to that party and we danced all night. Uncle Olin played until sunup, liberally fueled by Nelson County country waters.” She laughed, using the old Virginia term for moonshine. “George and I danced to sunrise. Those were the days.” She instinctively put her hand to her heart. “It's good to see this house full of people again.”

“They step on my tail,”
Pewter grumbled, rejoining them from the screened-in porch and, hard to believe, hungry again.

“Because it's fat like the rest of you.”
Mrs. Murphy giggled.

“Cats don't have fat tails,”
Pewter haughtily responded.

“You do,”
Murphy cackled, then jumped on the sofa, rolled over, four legs in the air, and turned her head upside down so she could watch her gray friend, who decided to stalk her.

Pewter crouched, edged forward, and when she reached the sofa she wiggled her hind end, then catapulted up in the air right onto the waiting Murphy.

“Banzai. Death to the Emperor!”
Pewter, who had watched too many old movies, shouted.

The cats rolled over, finally thumping onto the floor.

“What's gotten into you two?” Harry laughed at them from the kitchen.

“You know, I've heard people say that animals take on the personality of their owner,” Miranda, eyes twinkling, said.

“Is that a fact?” Harry stepped into the living room as the cats continued their wrestling match with lots of fake hissing and puffing.

“Must be true, Harry. You lie on the sofa and wait for someone to pounce on you.” Susan laughed.

“Humor. Small, pathetic, but an attempt at humor nonetheless.” Harry loved it when her friends teased her.

“Is that true?” Miranda appeared scandalized. “You're a sex bomb?” The words “sex bomb” coming out of Miranda's mouth seemed so incongruous that Harry and Susan burst out laughing and were at pains to explain exactly why.

Tucker, dead asleep in the hallway to the bedroom, slowly raised her head when the cats broke away from one another, ran to her, and jumped over her in both directions. Then Pewter bit Tucker's ear.

“Pewts, that was mean.”
Mrs. Murphy laughed.
“Do the other one.”

“Ouch.”
Tucker shook her head.

“Come on, lazybones. Let's play and guess what, there are leftovers,”
an excited, slightly frenzied Pewter reported before she tore back into the living room, jumped on the sofa, launched herself from the sofa to the bookcases, and miraculously made it.

Mrs. Murphy followed her. Once she and Pewter were on the same shelf, they had a serious decision to make: which books to throw on the floor.

Harry, sensing their plan, rushed over. “No, you don't.”

“Yes, we do.”
Mrs. Murphy pulled out
The Eighth Day
by Thornton Wilder.

Crash.

“I will smack you silly.” Harry reached for the striped devil but she easily eluded her human.

Pewter prudently jumped off but not before knocking off a silver cup Harry had won years before at a hunter pace. As the clanging rang in her ears, the cat spun out, slid around the wing chair, bolted into the kitchen where Miranda was putting Saran Wrap over the remains of the honey-cured ham, stole a hunk of ham, and crouched under the kitchen table to gnaw it.

“I've seen everything.” Miranda shook her head.

“Wild.” Susan knelt down as Tucker walked into the kitchen. “Aren't you glad you're not a crazy kitty?”

“Got her a piece of ham,”
Tucker solemnly stated.

Harry surveyed the house. “We did a good job.”

Mrs. Murphy joined Pewter under the table.

“I'm not giving you any. I stole this myself with no help from you.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Liar,”
Pewter said.

Harry peered under the table. “Radical.”

“That's us.”
Murphy purred back.

Harry examined the ham before Miranda put it in the refrigerator. “She tore a hunk right off of there, didn't she?”

“Before my very eyes. Little savage.”

“Might as well cut the piece smooth.” Harry lifted up the corner of the Saran Wrap and sliced off the raggedy piece. She divided it into three pieces, one for each animal. “Hey, anyone want coffee, tea, or something stronger? The coffee's made. Will only take me a second to brew tea.”

“I'd like a cuppa.” Miranda wrapped the last of the food, then she reached into the cupboard, bringing down the loose Irish tea that Harry saved for special occasions. “How about this?”

“My fave.” She turned to Susan. “What will you have?”

“Uh, I'll finish off the coffee and sit up all night. Drives Ned nuts when I do it but I just feel like a cup of coffee. Hey, before I forget, is that possum still in the hayloft?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I saved the broken chocolate bits for him.”

“He'll like that. He has a sweet tooth.”

“I don't know how Simon
”—Mrs. Murphy called the possum by his proper name—
“can eat chocolate. The taste is awful.”

“I don't think it's so bad.”
Tucker polished off her ham.
“Although dogs aren't supposed to eat it. But it tastes okay.”

“You're a dog.”
Murphy shook her head in case any tiny food bits lingered on her whiskers. She'd follow this up with a sweep of her whiskers with her forearm.

“So?”

“You'll eat anything whether it's good for you or not.”

Tucker eyed Mrs. Murphy, then turned her sweet brown eyes onto Pewter.
“She eats anything.”

“I don't eat celery,”
Pewter protested vigorously.

As the animals chatted so did the humans. The hunt was bracing, the breakfast a huge success, the house was cleaned up, the barn chores done. They sat and rehashed everything that had happened in the hunt field for Miranda's benefit as well as their own. Then all shared what they'd seen and heard at the party, laughing over who became tipsy, who insulted whom, who flirted with whom (everybody flirted with everybody), who believed it, who didn't, who tried to sell a horse (again, everybody), who tried to buy a horse (half the room), who tried to weasel recipes out of Miranda, various theories about Hank Brevard, and who looked good as well as who didn't.

“I heard only twenty people attended Hank's funeral.” Miranda felt badly that a man wasn't well liked enough to pack the church. It is one's last social engagement, after all.

“As you sow so ye shall reap.” Harry quoted the Bible not quite accurately to Miranda, which made the older woman smile.

“Some people never learn to get along with others. Maybe they're born that way.” Susan lost all self-restraint and took the last cinnamon bun with the orange glaze.

“Susan Tucker,” Harry said in a singsong voice.

“Oh, I know,” came the weak reply.

“You girls have good figures. Stop worrying.” Miranda reached down to scratch Tucker's head. “I wonder about that. I mean how it is that some people draw others to them and other people just manage to say the wrong thing or just put out a funny feeling. I'm not able to say what I mean but do you know what I mean?”

“Bad vibes,” Harry simply said, and they laughed together.

“These aren't bad vibes but Little Mim was working the party. She's really serious about being mayor.” Susan was amazed because Little Mim had never had much purpose in life.

“Maybe it would be good,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Maybe we need some fresh ideas.

“But we can't go against her father. He's a good mayor and he knows everybody. People listen to Jim.” Harry wondered how it would all turn out. “I don't see why he can't take her on as vice-mayor.”

“Harry, there is no vice-mayor,” Miranda corrected her.

“Yeah,” she answered back. “But why can't we create the position? If we ask for it now either as a fait accompli or charge the city council to create a referendum, it's a lot easier than waiting until November.”

“Oh, ladies, all you have to do is tell Jim your idea and he'll appoint her. You know the city council will back him up. Besides, no one wants to see a knock-down-drag-out between father and daughter—not that Jim would fight, he won't. But we all know that Little Mim hasn't much chance. Your solution is a good one, Harry. Good for everybody. The day will come when Jim can't be mayor and this way we'd have a smooth transition. You go talk to Jim Sanburne,” Miranda encouraged her.

“Maybe I should talk to Mim first.” Harry drained her teacup.

“There is that,” Susan said, “but then Jim hears it first from his wife. Better to go to him first since he is the elected official and on the same day call on her. She can't be but so mad.”

“You're right.” Harry looked determined, scribbling the idea on her napkin.

The phone rang. They sat for a moment.

“I'll get it.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the counter, knocking the wall phone receiver off the hook.

“Her latest trick.” Harry smiled, got up, and picked up the phone. “Hello.” She paused. “Coop, I can't believe it.” She paused again. “All right. Thanks.” She turned to her friends, her face drained white. “Larry Johnson has been shot.”

“Oh my God.” Miranda's hands flew to her face. “Is he—?” She couldn't say the word.